Wednesday, February 22, 2017

From its
haunting main titles, scored by Paul Glass and illustrated in title-master
extraordinaire, Saul Bass’ visual assurance for telling mini-stories - both
impressionistic and imaginative - to its bone-chillingly understated cameos
from Noel Coward (as a lecherous drunkard), Martita Hunt (her Miss Havisham
from David Lean’s Great Expectations
ominously transposed; locked away as the dotty ole clairvoyant, living like a
recluse in the upstairs attic of a children’s private school) and Anna Massey
(kitten-faced school teacher, Elvira Smollett, repeatedly berated for
incompetency), to Denys N. Coop’s moodily magnificent and offbeat pseudo-noir
cinematographic bravura, permeated by Otto Preminger’s dynamism, Bunny Lake Is Missing (1965) hails as
gossamer grand guignol; its velvety sheen turning swingin’ London asunder;
herein, recast as simultaneously menacing and deliciously remote. It seems no one in our story (co-written by
then marrieds, Penelope and John Mortimer and based on the best-selling novel
by Evelyn Piper- alias Marryam Modell), save our protagonist, Ann Lake (Carol
Lynley) is particularly interested in what has become of this titled tiny tot;
if, in fact, she ever existed. Bunny has gone. Or was she ever there? At once, Bunny Lake is Missing is deceptively
feather-weight yet densely packed with titillating bits of misdirection.

Preminger’s
last major work of both substance and style, Bunny Lake is Missing is not a ‘who
done it’ per say, but a psychosomatic exploitation piece, spinning its’ web
of deceit in ever-constricting circles around a disconcertingly incestuous
relationship. Steven and Ann Lake (played with sporadic credibility by Keir
Dullea and Carol Lynley) are brother and sister – not husband and wife. But
Preminger does his best to delay the audience from this realization, Steve’s
smarmy, headstrong and overly protective nature the first bit of ill-advised query
Preminger indulges in. For the better half of the picture, we are deliberately
led down the primrose by Preminger to believe Ann is suffering from an
infantilized psychosis, unable to rid herself of a childhood imaginary
playmate, also named ‘Bunny’ – the
nickname she has since given her ‘real life’ daughter, Felicia (Suky
Appleby). An even more macabre
foreshadowing comes tumbling forth when Ann suggests to Superintendent Newhouse
(Laurence Olivier, top-billed, though decidedly never over the top as the
methodical cop) both she and Steven eventually came to the decision their
fictional playmate needed to die, or rather, be killed off in a ritualized
Buddhist ceremony in which all of Bunny’s worldly possessions were burned, her
‘memory’ buried along with these charred remains.

If the premise
behind these past regressions seems alarmingly peculiar, it utterly pales to
the menagerie of eccentrics who populate the present. Bunny
Lake is Missingis inhabited by some inexplicably curious and spurious
characters; not the least, Ann’s landlord, Horatio Wilson (played with aberrant
relish by Noel Coward); a despicably charismatic, if craven old coot who, at
one point, encourages Newhouse’s right-hand man, Andrews (Clive Revill) to
accost him with his own cat-o-nine-tails (rumored to be a relic of the Marquis
de Sade), one can assume by Horatio’s jovial insistence, to achieve some
fetishistic arousal earlier denied him his oily advances on Ann. “I play a perverted old queer with
sadomasochistic tendencies,” Coward reportedly told a friend upon finishing
the picture, before glibly adding,
“Please…no jokes about type-casting.” Coward could afford such
tongue-firmly-in-cheek pellucidity. By 1966, he had become an instantly
recognizable crustacean in the British pop culture, largely famous for being
famous; an openly gay bon vivant and irrefutable connoisseur of the pleasures
of life, to say nothing of his legendary status as playwright, director,
producer and star of stage, screen and television; an all-around sophisticate
and worldly genius.

The other
outstanding ‘character’ part belongs irrefutably to Martita Hunt’s Miss Ada
Ford; the elder reincarnation of that aforementioned Dickensian loon, not
nearly as mad as she initially reports herself to be; warmly amused by Bunny’s
disappearance, coyly calling out her name as she navigates through the
labyrinth-like backstairs catacombs of the school; catching Steven in a lie and
thereafter quite capably relaying it to Newhouse; himself an amiable enthusiast
and admirer of such clever wit in setting traps with expertly laid out bait.
Hunt is so obviously – supremely – an old ham – she knows exactly how to ply
her craft for maximum effect without becoming clumsily ensnared as a loathsome
attention whore. When she is on the screen she quite simply commands it, yet
almost by accident, with a self-assured quaintness that is never boastful or
intrusive to the other players in the scene. But perhaps the signature
performance in the picture is Laurence Olivier’s laidback superintendent, most
fascinating of all for its complete absence of ingrained ‘theater’ training for
which a good deal of Olivier’s later film work is painfully aware; Newhouse,
biding his time rather than actually sleuthing for the truth. At one point,
when pushed by Lynley’s frantic mum to identify his modus operandi for solving
the case, Newhouse casually reclines in his chair, simply saying, “I’m waiting.”

Bunny Lake is Missing is a fairly
ghoulish affair; some of the horror taking place behind the camera: perhaps not
surprising, given Otto Preminger’s predilection for testing the boundaries of
screen censorship with subversive and taboo subject matter. Initially,
Preminger expressed little interest in the treatments of the novel prepared by
his first choice in screenwriter, Ira Levin; his intrigue later peaked only
after Penelope Mortimer suggested altering the novel’s original villain from a
deranged school teacher to ‘the brother’ – a far more intimate betrayal;
Preminger picking up on the incestuous angle and running with it to
nerve-jangling effect. The duality of
Otto Preminger bears mentioning; a seemingly cultured and cordial European when
met under casual circumstances, contrasted by a streak of unbridled sadism and
cruelty on the set of his pictures, telescopically focused on his actors in
particular – or rather, those he fiendishly hand-picked for their easily
manipulated vulnerability. Stories of Preminger’s relentless browbeating of
Carol Lynley, and to lesser extent, Keir Dullea, are legendary; Lynley frequently
brought to the brink of nervous jitters and/or reduced to frightened tears.
Arguably, Preminger’s venom helps inform and shape Lynley’s emotional
responses; less the actress and more of a ‘sex kitten’ – her previous work in Blue Denim (1959) – a tale of martyred
teen sexuality and its psychological fallout – proving irresistible to
Preminger’s own perverse intuitions about human frailty.

In life, Otto
Preminger was as much a contradiction as he proved something of a rank egotist;
envious, yet respectful of director, Alfred Hitchcock’s reputation (this,
arguably, he sought to emulate) while chronically bent on striving to reconcile
his classical training as a film-maker with the more modish accoutrements of
the British ‘new wave’. Yet, catching
up with the times would ultimately tarnish Preminger’s reputation in his
emeritus years. He was, after all, a classically trained film-maker. But in
private, Preminger was decidedly a bastard, his numerous extramarital affairs
resulting in an illegitimate child with stripper, Gypsy Rose Lee and some high
profile suicides of other leading ladies and/or paramours (Dorothy Dandridge,
Maggie McNamara, Jean Seberg – to name but three). What Otto Preminger ought to
be remembered for is his technical prowess; a master of the long take, even
more impressive herein when one considers virtually all of the key sequences in
Bunny Lake is Missingare on
location and usually shot within very confined quarters; Preminger’s omnipotent
widescreen aperture maneuvering with glycerin effortlessness through some very
claustrophobic hallways inside The Little People’s Garden School, or descending
into the steamy bowels of St. Child’s Asylum. It is an almost invisible style,
one Preminger has honed throughout the course of his long career, laying dolly
track as though he were building a railroad and arguably trademarking the
smooth tracking shot better than anyone else. Perhaps, Preminger, whose
in-camera cutting bears a striking resemblance to another brilliant filmmaker’s
work - Billy Wilder – took his cue from an apocryphal story in which Wilder is
rumored to have deposited his film reels on the desk on his editor, exclaiming,
“Here…join the ends together.”

Bunny Lake is Missing is a
difficult picture to peg, perhaps because, like all good thrillers, it
unexpectedly denies us our level of safety with perverse unease; its epicenter of moral
gravity obscured by the Mortimer’s cleverly plotted twists and turns; also by
Preminger’s ability to convince us for more than half of its run time Ann Lake
is his ‘mad woman of Chalot’ – driven to wild distraction by an unfulfilled
maternal instinct, since run amuck with devilish and wild-eyed stories of the
daughter she never had. And, indeed, this seems quite plausible as Ann is
unable to provide Newhouse with even a photograph of the missing child,
explaining that most of Bunny’s things from America have yet to be unpacked.
Given Ann is newly arrived in England, this seems plausible - and yet, in an
instance, highly suspect too. It does not help that Ann is unable to locate a
witness – anyone – who saw her with Bunny on the bus, at the school, shopping
for toys along the street. Is there no one in the whole of London who will
testify to the fact Bunny Lake is real? Yes, there is – Steven Lake – who
builds upon his sister’s protestations – while adding a few of his own – and
bolsters her confidences, presumably, as any good brother should. Not until
late in Act III, when Steven willfully saturates Bunny’s favorite doll in
kerosene before lighting it afire – destroying the last shred of evidence Ann
might have taken to Newhouse as proof of her daughter’s existence, do we
suddenly come to the most sinister and dreadful conclusion: Steven Lake is
madder than a hatter and twice as certain up to no good.

Some of the
aforementioned narrative and pictorial aspects of the piece might have easily
typecast Bunny Lake is Missing as an
assiduous police procedural melodrama, a noir-ish crime story or just another
archetypal ‘woman in peril’ piece, with the underpinnings of a psychological
thriller a la Gaslight (1944). But
Preminger never remains focused on any of these variables for more than a
moment’s glance, effectively mixing them up as he moves in and out of their
exclusivities that could, but never do earmark his movie’s domain. Preminger’s
Act I is compelling for its varied cameos; Olivier’s coy and cryptic policeman,
playfully re-framing Steven’s allegations; that Newhouse is trying to ensnare either
him or Ann in a lie. This contention is superbly staged as a slightly
traditional game of cat and mouse; Preminger inveigling and insulating his
brother/sister tag team with an insidiously benign, though completely
captivating menagerie of some of Britain’s finest acting talents. Hence, Anna
Massey’s obtuse and oddly defiant teacher is followed by Martita Hunt’s bemused
and pixelated lady in the attic, the introduction of Olivier’s calming
detective, and so on. Aside: I understand somewhere in this cavalcade is a
fleeting glimpse of Oliver Reed, poking his head into the frame as a bobby. If
you can spot him you have better eyes than yours truly. We can almost forgive
Preminger this who’s who that mollycoddles the central cast because Preminger
has fulfilled his Michael Todd-ish mandate with a roster culled from the most
instantly recognizable British talent, thus adding drama as well as flavor that
anchors his movie in a sort of sixties time capsule.

With such a
peerless sendoff, the second act of Bunny
Lake is Missing occasionally falters; Preminger racing through the
particulars of a more clinical police procedural melodrama; Carol Lynley’s
wild-eyed young Miss rapidly deflated and whimpering to distraction, her
innocent protestations countermanded by Steven’s stiff britches and veiled
threats to stir a tempest in a teacup if he does not immediately get his way
with the law. The needless reappearance of Noel Coward’s lascivious rake,
undoubtedly good for it as a delectable bit of theater, otherwise creates even
more latent impatience to be redirected back into the central narrative.
Without question, Preminger’s tour de force is his Act III abduction of Ann
Lake; her probative investigation and gullibility in sharing her next move with
Steven resulting in a fate temporarily worse than... From the moment Carol
Lynley’s artless lass barges into the morosely half-lit and incredibly
cluttered Doll Hospital overseen by an 89 year old wheelchair-bound, Findlay
Currie (in his last screen appearance), Bunny
Lake is Missing acquires both the impetus and frenzied momentum of a
careening car inside the proverbial ‘dark ride’ at an amusement park;
unsurpassed in its suspense and comparatively, a real Hitchcockian moment;
Preminger transforming seemingly innocuous – even gay surroundings – reinvented
as a truly monstrous nightmare.

There is a
real ‘haunted house’ quality to this
elaborate set piece, the Doll Hospital, an eerie purgatory of frozen faces,
blankly staring back at Ann with ‘dead
eyes’ caught in the dim afterglow of a kerosene lamp as she navigates below
stairs through a tomb of toys, miraculously discovering Bunny’s doll amongst
the sea of clones, only to be unexpectedly thwarted in her ambitions by Steven,
now absolutely gone off the deep end. Preminger brings Act III to a crescendo
with Ann’s forced admittance into St. Child’s Hospital; intercut with a few
superbly played bits of necessary exposition from Olivier’s Newhouse, still
tracing Ann and Bunny’s past and unearthing even more half-truths inside the shipping
offices. Unable to confirm the date of the pair’s arrival via the steamship’s
passenger list from America, Newhouse realizes Steven Lake has been lying to
them all along; his suspicions confirmed when Andrews intercepts a bulletin
about a young woman suffering ‘an accident’, now heavily sedated and interned
at St. Childs – her name: Lake!

Interestingly,
Newhouse does not proceed posthaste to the hospital to confirm Ann’s
institutionalization but rather, rushes back to No. 3, Frogmore End; the rented
home where Steven and Ann have been temporarily staying. He is the last to
arrive; Ann having quietly sneaked out of hospital after changing back into her
clothes inside the animal laboratory in the basement, before skulking towards
relative safety via an unlocked door in the maintenance cellar. The
confrontation between brother and sister that follows is somewhat
anticlimactic. Ann nervously observes as Steven retrieves Bunny’s lifeless –
though only drugged – body from the boot of his sports car. Has the girl been
fast asleep inside the trunk ever since her abduction shortly before noon?!? To
quell Steven’s brooding and possessive concerns, that he and Ann can never be
close as they were as children so long as Bunny lives, Ann engages her demented
sibling in bizarre recreations of some of their favorite childhood past times;
the manic lunacy of a frantic ‘hide and seek’ seguing into a verse and chorus
of ‘Here We Go ‘Round the Mulberry Bush’
before culminating with a nail-biting diversion of ‘Blind Man’s Bluff’, ended only after Ann, first attempting escape,
then to hide Bunny from harm’s way, suddenly suffers the immense dread in
realizing her secret hiding place – the dilapidated greenhouse – has already
been anticipated by Steven beforehand, who now takes Bunny in his arms,
determined to either strangle or set her afire before burying her in an
unmarked grave already dug in the backyard.

At some point,
one has to simply accept this highly implausible denouement at face value;
Newhouse, Andrews and a small contingent of London’s finest descending on No. 3
in the nick of time, but only after Ann has lured Steven away one last time to
a nearby swing, where she commands him to push her ‘higher and higher’ up to
the sky. Thus, Bunny is spared her fate, having fallen asleep in the open
grave, clutching the remains of her burnt doll. Rescued from this pit by a
tearful Ann, mother and daughter share in a brighter future: Newhouse’s
penultimate acknowledgement that Ann is not mad, her daughter is real, and,
their lives may begin anew without Steven’s epic insanity to dog either of
them, is perhaps too sudden and too perfect a finale. But again…as Hitchcock
would say…it’s only a movie and in this case, a damn good one at that.

Ann’s
nightmare begins innocuously, as an American single mum dropping off her
daughter at The Little People’s Garden preschool. Unable to find the school’s
administrator, Ann leaves her daughter in the ‘First Day’ room; the school’s
rather benign cook (Lucie Mannheim) more engrossed in her junket than worrying
about this new arrival. A little time passes – alas, enough for Bunny to
disappear without ever having met the school’s administrator or any of her
teachers or classmates; Ann horrified by both Elvira and Ada Ford’s
complacency. In short order, Ann telephones Steven, who wastes no time raising
hell, admonishing Elvira for her incompetence and grilling Ada about her
purpose at the school, long since having retired as its headmistress and
co-founder. Into this frantic mix enters Superintendent Newhouse; a somewhat
infuriatingly calm, though steadily calming influence on Ann. Steven remains
unconvinced the police are doing enough to locate Bunny. In point of fact,
Newhouse later tells Ann he is merely ‘waiting’ for a lead to develop; one that
will break the case wide open. In the meantime, Steven begins to play both ends
against the middle; seemingly genuine in confiding to Ada Ann’s imaginary
playmate; in hindsight, wanting her to relay this discovery to Newhouse and
thus ‘accidentally’ stumble upon the planted information that may lead the
detective to concur Ann is not a very stable woman. Could she have made
everything up? No, especially since Steven too professes there really is a
Bunny Lake. But Steven is much too clever, perhaps even for himself. When
Newhouse learns Bunny’s tuition has never been paid, Steven suggests the school
lost his deposit and is now covering up what has quickly degenerated into their
full-blown scandal, showing Newhouse a check stub properly dated.

We meet Ann’s
disturbingly libidinous landlord, Horatio Wilson; first, casually strolling
into Ann’s newly rented flat, suggestively implying she might find some time
for him, then later, to return with even more transparent and ominous
intentions of possibly raping her in his ever-so-slightly inebriated state;
both times, thwarted in his plans by the arrival of the police, come to search
the flat and question Ann further about her whereabouts earlier that afternoon.
When Ann returns from her first interrogation, she discovers someone has taken
all of Bunny’s things – clothes, toys, etc. – an ill-omened foretaste that
perhaps the child is already dead or her abductors (if they exist) have no
intention of ever returning Bunny; even for a ransom. Steven haughtily
threatens Newhouse with a public scandal. But Newhouse in un-phased by these
threats and bides his time.

In one of the
movie’s most comforting moments – a welcomed respite from all the frenzy and
fear otherwise mounting – Newhouse decides to take Ann to a local pub. After
all, she has not eaten since the abduction. Pale and weak, Ann begins to
confide portions of her past to the detective, perhaps unaware all the while he
is piecing together a back story from the clues she is providing him. If Bunny
Lake is Missing does have a weak scene, it is this interpolated act of
benevolence; Preminger, repeatedly cutting away to a 20 inch television hanging
over the bar to showcase three songs from the then popular British band, The
Zombies (incongruously billed in the credits above Noel Coward). Curiously
absent from this American Bandstand-styled intrusion, the Zombie’s No. 1 hit,
‘She’s Not There’ – perhaps a bit too ‘on the nose’ for Preminger’s tastes in
its foreshadowing. The Zombies preeminent screen credit is also an oddity as
they neither appear in the movie – except on this TV broadcast – nor serve as
integral to the plot, Preminger, perhaps, attempting to tap into the zeitgeist
of their fleeting fame; the ruse only serving to deflect from the importance of
the scene and deflate its dramatic impact. Mercifully, Preminger quickly
regains his toehold on the moment; Steven barging in and accusing Newhouse of
baiting his sister to incriminate herself.

Ann refuses to
believe this. She really is a trusting soul. But only moments later, Newhouse
has apparently had enough of both the Lakes, electing to go home. Ann and
Steven return to their rented house. Herein, Preminger stages one of the most
unsettling and kinky moments in the picture, almost as a toss away; Ann
casually seated on the edge of the bathtub while her brother bathes, a little
amateur deconstructing of the minutiae and possible motives behind whomever
took Bunny in the first place. Piper’s novel contained no such hints of family
incest. Yet, this is exactly the angle that appealed mostly to Preminger upon
reading the Mortimer’s outline and finished screenplay. The bathtub scene is
undeniably shot in ‘good taste’ and from a very low angle to reveal absolutely
nothing of Keir Dullea in all his presumed nakedness, not even his nipples.
Nevertheless, the scene is extremely off-putting in its implication these two
siblings are more than comfortable observing one another in the raw; Ann
suddenly realizing she gave Steven one of Bunny’s favorite dolls to have
repaired at a local doll hospital and toy shop.

Earlier, Ann
had been quite unable to locate any snapshots or even Bunny’s passport to prove
to Newhouse she actually exists. The chit from the doll hospital would at least
prove the girl’s missing things existed. So, Ann blindly rushes off in the dead
of night, discovering the front door to the establishment ajar and finding its
benevolent owner still working on his labor of love – restoring old toys to
their original glory. The shop keeper tells Ann her doll is finished and awaiting
pickup in the basement. She finds the doll and hurries to pay for its repairs,
confronted by Steven who sets fire to the evidence; then, knocks Ann
unconscious before admitting her to a nearby mental hospital for observation,
lying about her injury being self-inflicted.
After Ann is wheeled upstairs into a darkened – and very spooky ward –
presided over by a benevolent nurse (Kika Markham), Ann manages a rather daring
escape, descending the backstairs into the janitor’s quarters, animal
laboratory, and finally, maintenance room, before slipping out the back way
undiscovered.

Meanwhile,
Newhouse has not retired for the night as he promised, but rather, with Andrews
help, has gone to the shipping offices to learn when Ann and Bunny arrived from
New York. Misdirected by Steven about the time and day, Newhouse nevertheless
manages to unearth the particulars of their transatlantic crossing. There was a
child and mother aboard ship. So Ann is not suffering from some miscarried
hallucinations as Steven suggested earlier as an alternative theory of his
sister’s mental state. Armed with the realization Ann has been telling everyone
the truth, Newhouse and Andrews arrive at Frogmore End, just in time to prevent
Steven from murdering his niece – and quite possibly, Ann too. As mother and daughter tearfully clutch one
another, walking toward the camera, Preminger implies their sordid nightmare is
at an end; the mysterious ‘hand’ - a part of Saul Bass’ opening credits, tearing
strips of paper to reveal the main titles - instead restoring a cutout of a
little girl, thus blackening the entire image onto which the end titles are
projected.

Sandwiched
somewhere in between Hitchcock’s own affecting thriller, Psycho (1960), the exquisite grand guignol on display in Robert
Altman’s Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
(1962), and, its less delicate follow-up in Altman’s Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte (1964), Bunny Lake is Missingremains a definitive masterpiece in
Preminger’s illustrious career, if for no other reason, because it both caps
off and typifies that mid-sixties predilection for perverted familial
relationships; in Psycho’s case,
between a boy and his dead mother; in the latter two examples, between sisters,
and/or female cousins; and in this movie, springing from a superficially
inoffensive bond between brother and sister.
While no one could confuse Preminger’s efforts as ones made by the ‘master of suspense’, Preminger does get
an incredible amount of mileage from his ‘horror story’ despite its
plausibility ranking somewhere close to that proverbial nursery rhyme about the
‘cow jumping over the moon’. And yet,
Preminger can – and does – make all of it quite credible. Bunny Lake is Missing feels genuine in the moment; the audience
lulled into believing its incredible story until perhaps they have had a few
moments afterwards to reconsider its utter ridiculousness.

Arguably,
Preminger’s two weakest links are Carol Lynley and, particularly, Keir Dullea,
whose strikingly angular features occasionally obfuscate or at least provide
for marginal compensation of his rather perfunctory delivery of some of his
lines. The way Preminger shoots Dullea’s
big reveal as the nut job, engrossed in the flicker of a burning doll’s head
drenched in kerosene, is truly memorable in exposing Steven’s utterly distorted
mind. In the final analysis, the virtues
of the production far outweigh its shortcomings; the heavy-hitters in the cast,
particularly Laurence Olivier’s tantalizingly analytical inspector, run rings
around the material, selling this increasingly fanciful – if psychologically
grim – yarn as a very stylish, and ultimately successful mystery-thriller. Very
great stuff and fluff that dreams are often made of; though, on this occasion,
it’s the evocation of the nightmare that counts.

Bunny Lake is Missing gets the ‘bells and whistles’ treatment from Indicator/Powerhouse,
a U.K. distributor, via a stunning 1080p hi-def Blu-ray transfer from Sony Home
Entertainment. Indicator’'s region free disc is a marginally different transfer
than the one provided to Twilight Time in the U.S. – slightly darker but
sporting better overall contrast. Once again, Grover Crisp’s overseeing of the
old Columbia catalog has yielded an exemplar in Blu-ray mastering. Were that
every other competing studio had such a champion of the classics in their
midst. I have repeatedly doffed my cap to Mr. Crisp for his monumental efforts
on even, arguably, lesser B-grade catalog. Bunny
Lake is Missing is an A-list production from top to bottom and herein,
Denys N. Coop’s lush and moody cinematography gets its due. You are going to
love, LOVE, this disc. It is reference quality to say the least. Watching
movies like this one reminds me of exactly how much has been lost in
present-era Hollywood’s frenetic pace and chop-shop styled editing practices.
Preminger and Coop have taken great pains to give us the lay of the land, and
this hi-def rendering never once allows any of their meticulous planning to go
unnoticed. The gray scale is absolutely marvelous. Age-related artifacts have
been completely eradicated. The image is smooth, razor-sharp and sporting a
light smattering of film grain indigenous to its source. I could not be more
pleased with the effort put forth herein. This is a perfect home video
presentation of a decidedly good thriller.

The 1.0 mono
is more than adequate, restored and remastered, again to levels of perfection
Sony seems to effortlessly ascribe to virtually every release created under
their auspices. Indicator far surpasses
Twilight Time’s Blu-ray in the extras department; a very comprehensive
assortment that veers into Criterion territory; starting with a pair of
interview featurettes, one with actress Carol Linley, the other with actor,
Clive Revell. Cumulatively, its forty plus minutes of bonusesand capped off
by a limited edition exclusive booklet featuring a thorough essay by Chris
Fujiwara. Also present are all of TT’s extras; three very unique – and
occasionally – laughable trailers; also, an isolated score showcasing Paul
Glass’ sparse score. But the absolute best extra is the audio commentary,
offering copious amounts of back story; hosted by Nick Redman with Julie Kirgo
and Lem Dobbs weighing in for good measure. Bottom line: Indicator’s release is
the one you want.

Sidney Poitier
capped off his meteoric rise as the cinema’s #1 box office draw with To Sir With Love, one of three major
motion pictures in which he starred in 1967 (the other two: Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, and, In The Heat of the Night). Indeed,
Poitier had scored an unlikely coup in Hollywood at a time when black
performers were still expected to play second fiddle to their Caucasian
counterparts. In hindsight, there was nothing about Poitier that ought to have
pegged him for such greatness; nothing – except talent – and, arguably, timing.
Talent alone rarely equates to stardom. But Poitier had distinguished himself
in Darryl F. Zanuck’s No Way Out (1950);
his big screen debut – creating a template for the forthright man of color,
repeatedly forced to grapple with abject racism. Five years later, Poitier resurfaced as the
incorrigible youth in Blackboard Jungle
(1955); in retrospect, a tantalizing precursor to his role as Mark Thackeray in
To Sir With Love; the pupil now
sufficiently aged and morphed into the educator with progressive ideas, but a
gentle heart.

Poitier’s
screen persona is, in essence, largely an extension of the man himself; the
noble free thinker, governed by a built-in intuitiveness and moral compass
positioned just this side of sainthood. In an era buffeted by volatile civil
right demonstrations across the still segregated south, Poitier’s men of action
spoke to a new perspective on ‘black
power’; the gentlemen’s ‘gentle man’ who could debate his way out of any
situation using superior deductive reasoning. Sandwiched somewhere between this
bronzed – if reconstituted – view of Friedrich Nietzsche’s superman and the
traditional tough guy with a Teflon-coated veneer of ethnocentric congeniality,
Poitier’s own humanity was allowed to periodically shine through. Poitier’s
champions are heroic in less obvious ways; the caretaker who looks out for a
refreshingly innocent flock of nuns (Lilies
of the Field, 1963), or the conqueror of prejudice, in search of the
unvarnished truth to solve a hate crime (In
the Heat of the Night 1967). His shy educator in To Sir With Loveis thrust upon a hard knock neighborhood in
London’s east end; a dangerous place for most, but particularly Poitier’s Mark
Thackeray, who isn’t about to take any guff from his current class of lazy
slackers.

James Clavell
directs from his own screenplay, overusing the chart-topping title song, sung
by Lulu (who also has a small part in the film as Barbara ‘Babs’ Pegg), but he
gets considerable mileage out of Poitier’s ability to convey a stern wisdom and
eagle-eyed pride without either quality ever becoming boastful. Mark Thackeray
is no push over, as he proves at some point by standing up to and putting down
class bully, Denham (Christian Roberts); who fancies himself cock of the walk
around these parts and aims to keep up his territorial rights. In their few
rounds of fisticuffs its brains, not braggadocio that win out. And Thackeray
knows his audience. Reason and cooler heads will follow, even if Thackeray
isn’t above knocking them together. The two-way street of respect is left
decidedly uncluttered after their bout. Now, the real work can at last begin. To Sir With Love hails from a long line
of dramas in praise of a favorite teacher. In some regards, E.R. Braithwaite’s
novel is an update on James Hilton’s classic read, ‘Goodbye, Mr. Chips’;
introducing a relatively shy man whose own convictions break through the
bureaucratic nonsense and get the job done despite seemingly insurmountable
odds.

Educator and
author, E. R. Braithwaite based his novel on personal experiences – or perhaps,
those merely embellished – accrued while teaching in London’s East End. Upon
publication, the book met with heavy criticism. Noted critic and reviewer, F.
M. Birbalsingh called To Sir With Love
a ‘glowing tribute’ to Braithwaite’s
‘own image’ as a ‘rather talented and
thoroughly civilized black man’, bashing the savior-esque qualities of its
protagonist as a ‘sordid demonstration of the author’s own vanity’. To be fair,
there is something of the martyr in Braithwaite’s prose. At times, he does
everything except conjure the image of a gallant astride his magnificent charger,
crusading for the enlightened mind, while conquering with a benevolent heart.
In hindsight, the book is tailor-made for the movies; even more perfect as a
star vehicle for Sidney Poitier, perhaps, because Poitier never falls into the
obvious trap of playing the ‘perfect’
man toiling under decidedly imperfect conditions to affect social change. His
Mark Thackeray is not a man who always believes in himself. But he is someone
who fervently has faith in this ragtag flock he believes can be brought around
to do better. So, exactly how does one thank someone who has taken them from
crayons to perfume?

To Sir With Love opens with Lulu Kennedy-Cairns’
(abbreviated to Lulu professionally) infectious rendition of the title song,
co-written by Don Black and Mark London. In 1967, the song remained #1 on the
U.S. Billboard charts for nearly a year; a pop phenomenon even more of an
oddity, considering it did not even list in the Top 100 in the U.K. – released
there as the quickly forgotten B-side to ‘Let’s Pretend’. As an interesting aside: Lulu would have even
greater success with 1974’s title track for the James Bond movie, The Man With The Golden Gun. For a
while, it appeared as though Lulu’s fame might rival Petula Clark. In the end,
only Clark had the longevity of an intercontinental career. We catch our first
glimpse of Mark Thackeray, an unemployed engineer, disembarking a London bus
for his first day of school. The novel took its time to evolve a back-story for
‘Ricky Braithwaite’ – the author’s not-so-fictional alter ego; detailing his
exploits as a British/Guiana-born engineer who worked on an Aruban oil
refinery, but returns to Britain at the cusp of WWII. Distinguishing himself in
the RAF during this global crisis, afterward, Ricky quickly discovered mounting
anti-black sentiments to prevent him from finding suitable employment in his
chosen field. Very reluctantly, he takes a position as an educator at London’s
Greenslade Academy. As scripted by James
Clavell, none of this preamble appears in the film; the whole premise updated
to ‘then’ present day, making the circumstances ironically even timelier with
the racial divide taking place in the U.S. Deep South.

Thackeray has
come to his teaching post second best. A defeated man, he perhaps believes the
task of motivating young minds beneath him, though nevertheless, an easy way to
make some money while he quietly goes in search of future job prospects
elsewhere. Caught in the crossfire of some harmless, though brazen, flirtations
made by a pair of old crones aboard his bus, Thackeray is in for a most
unwelcome surprise upon his arrival to North Quay Secondary School near the
London Docks. The building looks more like a reformatory than a place of higher
learning; Thackeray’s first encounter with one of the pupils, Tich Jackson
(Gareth Robinson) a pale glimmer of the adversarial outlook he is about to
encounter. Indeed, his classroom resembles the general tenor of an 18th century
asylum, the gaggle in chaos and disrespectfully oblivious to his purpose among
them. Thackeray’s students are, in fact, tart-mouthed reprobates who, having
been repeatedly expelled from other schools would rather spend their free time
smoking or carousing than partaking of his expert tutelage. About half are
semi-literate, the rest disinterested in making the effort to stay afloat in
their studies so they can make something from their lives upon graduation.
Thackeray tries to win favor with this motley crew, but quickly realizes
conventional wisdom will not be enough to convince them of their dead-end
paths.

Headmistress,
Grace Evans (Faith Brook) is a welcome sight, as is another new recruit,
Gillian Blanchard (Suzy Kendell). Both could tell Thackeray a thing or two
about the quagmire he’s stepped into; his first teaching assignment promising
to be something of a trial by fire. Thackeray’s introduction to fellow
educator, Theo Weston (Geoffrey Bayldon) is an ominous precursor of things to
come. Weston refers to Thackeray as the latest lamb, fit for the slaughter. Gillian is more circumspect, but astutely
comments there is something simultaneously ‘frightening’ and ‘challenging’
about North Quay. On his first day, Thackeray makes rather a bad enemy of
Denham. Assessing the reading comprehension skills of his pupils proves a minor
tribulation until Pamela Dare (Judy Geeson) reads a lyrical passage from her
textbook with great conviction. It’s the first, and arguably, last bit of
promise revealed to Thackeray so soon in his assignment.

Thackeray is
given the lowdown on his predecessor, Mr. Hackman, who made a hasty departure
after several valiant – but failed – strides to befriend his students. They
won’t respond to kindness, having so little in their own home lives, and
therefore regarding it as a terrible weakness amongst the educators to be exploited
at every possible opportunity. In the meantime, Weston takes cynical pleasure
in explaining to Thackeray the pointlessness of their positions as educators of
the ‘great unwashed’. Thackeray is apt to side with the plight of his pupils, a
perspective Weston finds quite laughable and Thackeray will soon discover for
himself is a thoroughly misguided approach. The next morning, Thackeray nearly
takes a tumble after the front leg on his desk gives out. Inspecting the break,
he quickly realizes it was neither a natural malfunction from the age of the
wood, nor an honest accident; the leg deliberately sawed at its joint. After
school, Thackeray confronts one of his pupils, Seales (Anthony Villaroel) in
the courtyard. Seales’ melancholy quickly pivots to rage as he reveals a
general contempt for his brutish father and emasculated empathy for his ailing
mother. Thackeray is frustrated. He desperately wants to be of help, yet cannot
bring himself to the task, suddenly realizing there are more dire issues at stake
for these kids than mere studies in math and English.

The next day
begins with a near miss from a water balloon, tossed out the school’s second
story window. Upon his arrival to the classroom, Thackeray discovers one of the
girls has placed a soiled sanitary napkin in the heating duct to ferment. The
stench is appalling, but more so, the crudeness and mindset of the act;
Thackeray ordering the boys into the hall before confronting the girls,
admonishing each of them as a filthy slut and demanding an immediate cleanup of
their disgusting display before he returns. Thackeray is incensed, set to throw
in the towel until he suddenly realizes he has been treating his brood as
children when, in fact, in a few short weeks they will be thrust into the adult
world as adults and, with all the responsibilities of the adult world suddenly
heaped upon them. To this end, Thackeray reenters the room reinvigorated. He
informs the students from this moment on, they shall address one another with
the essential courtesies as ‘Miss’ or ‘Mr.’
All shall refer to him as either ‘Sir’ or ‘Mr. Thackeray’. He also
outlines a few harsh facts for the brood to chew on; first, no man, except the
worst kind, prefers a slut to a lady for too long; second, real men are never
caught dead in public unkempt. Proper hygiene will be observed from now on.
Finally, Thackeray elects to toss out the conventional modes of education for
the duration of their time together. Instead, the students will engage him in
conversations about topics that are interested in; love, sex, death, rebellion,
etc. and et al.

Thackeray goes
on to explain the rudimentary principles of growing up. Rebellion is a natural
part of coming into one’s own. But it is only successful as either a trend or
new way of looking at the world if it impacts the culture at large; peacefully,
objectively and with the purpose to enhance the social order of the present,
even as it leans toward a possible revisionist perspective for future
generations who will follow it. He
imparts certain intrinsic wisdoms with pointed clarity. First, marriage is no
way of life for the weak, the selfish or the insecure. These early truths
become the foundation of his new teaching platform. Furthermore, Thackeray
elects to broaden everyone’s horizons with a school trip to the Victoria and
Albert Museum. If To Sir With Love has a singular flaw, it is the handling of
this crucial sequence in the students’ enlightenment; photographed economically
via a stilted montage of still images with Lulu’s title track heard for a
second time in its entirety. Nevertheless, the trip is a great success.

Based on the
exemplary behavior exhibited by everyone on this outing, the school’s
administrator, Mr. Florian (Edward Burnham) approves Thackeray for more
outings; Thackeray turning to his pupils for advice on where next they would
like to go. In the meantime, Thackeray becomes aware Pamela has begun to harbor
romantic feelings towards him; an unexpected complication he must eventually
deal with in his own time and way. However, when P.T. teacher, Mr. Bell (Dervis
Ward) inadvertently causes one of the boys, ‘Fats’ Buckley (Roger Shepherd) to
become injured on the pommel horse during gymnasium practice, the mood amongst
the male students gets ugly. Because Bell has treated the boys in general, and
Fats in particular with callousness and contempt, Potter (Christopher Chittell)
now elects to seize the broken wooden leg from the horse and give Bell a good
thrashing; a confrontation narrowly averted when Tich bursts into Thackeray’s
classroom for help. Thackeray listens to both sides; challenging Bell on his
bad behavior. It is an unpopular decision, with Bell as well as the class;
Denham exploiting the opportunity to turn everyone against Thackeray after he
insists Potter apologizes to Bell for his bad behavior. As Thackeray points
out, if Potter makes his recompense out of fear he will still be a boy, not a
man.

Amidst this
turmoil, Seale arrives late to the class, tearfully informing Thackeray his
mother has died. Thackeray rushes to comfort, returning some time later to
discover a very different attitude pervading his classroom. The students are
against him because of the incident with Bell. Nevertheless, they have
valiantly rallied to get together a collection for flowers for Seale’s mother.
When Denham suggests Pamela have the order sent to the house, Thackeray
questions why not deliver the flowers in person. Miss Peg explains how any girl
who would enter the home of a ‘colored’ would be set up to ridicule, rumor and
innuendo. It is the film’s first and only attempt to address the racial divide
far more prevalently described in Braithwaite’s novel, and its impact carries
all the more resonance in Sidney Poitier’s understated reaction. Owing to her
lingering affections for Thackeray, Pamela offers to visit Seale’s home with
the flowers – having grown up alongside his family since kindergarten. A short
while later, Pamela’s mother (Ann Bell) pleads with Thackeray to have a talk
with her daughter. An awkward strain runs through their brief conversation,
Thackeray sensing some unpleasantness transpired between Pam and her father,
whom Mrs. Dare lies about.

Thackeray
confronts Pamela with her familial problems, telling her to grow up and give
her mother another chance. Pamela is stubborn and wounded by this suggestion,
much more so because she suddenly realizes her own romantic fantasies about
Thackeray are simply that and destined never to go further. Henceforth, she
tearfully refuses to fulfill her commitment with the flowers and storms out of
the classroom. Florian tells Thackeray because of the incident with Mr. Bell
all future fieldtrips for his class is suspended. Florian also informs
Thackeray he will be taking over the P.T. class for the time being. It’s the
perfect storm for Denham, who decides to test the class’ growing animosity by
forcing Thackeray into a few rounds of fisticuffs with him in the school’s
gymnasium. Very reluctantly, Thackeray agrees, holding Denham at bay for as
long as he can, even allowing him to throw a few very angry, though well-timed
punches before diffusing the situation for good with a quick upper cut to the
stomach, leaving Denham winded and sidelined. The bout teaches everyone a
lesson, but particularly Denham. Life is about more than the art of
self-defense. Thackeray has, in fact, illustrated the more subtle and refined
strength of humility. Through Denham, Thackeray wins back the respect of the
entire class. He is invited to their farewell party; an invitation he cagily
accepts.

On Saturday,
Thackeray elects to meet the hearse carrying Seale’s mother on Juniper St.,
believing he will be the only attendee to extend such a kindness. Instead, he
is utterly bewildered, and humbled to discover his entire class, properly
dressed and mannered, turned out for the burial. That evening, the students
gather for their final dance together; Pamela urging Thackeray to call her by
her Christian name just this once and committing him to a slow dance. Weston is
amazed by the transformation of the senior class. He even indulges in some
homemade food prepared by Miss Peg. Once on the dance floor, Pamela reneges on
her promise, forcing Thackeray to bring his dancing skills up to her speed. We
hear a third reprise of the title song with slightly altered lyrics, the class
presenting Thackeray with a present of their esteem; an engraved silver
drinking cup. Overcome with emotion, Thackeray retires to his classroom without
telling anyone except Gillian he has already accepted a position as third
engineer with a local train manufacturer.
Thackeray’s moment of solitude does not last for too long; a pair of
uncouth undergraduates (Kevin Hubbard, Sally Gosselin) bursting in and
confronting Thackeray with the knowledge they will be his next educational
assignment after the summer’s respite. Thackeray contemplates his future for a
brief moment, removing the offer of employment from the train company from his
breast pocket and tearing it up. He has found his niche as well as his chosen
calling at last.

Fifty years later, To Sir With Love
remains an affecting piece of cinema, despite its shortcomings and, primarily,
because Sidney Poitier’s central performance is so undeniably heartfelt and
sincere. Time has been kind, or perhaps, weathered the saccharine of the
exercise, enough to expose its perennial appeal. The film really is all
Poitier’s show and he gives us just about the greatest one man charmer of the
decade. In hindsight, the passionate men
of integrity Poitier became typecast to play are an obvious bridge from the old
ensconced social mores critiquing – and arguably, plaguing – black actors from
a certain generation to our own present era, where their proliferation in roles
as diverse as their Caucasian counterparts in the mainstream has become equally
as commonplace. Poitier is a celebrated figure in this transformation of the
cinema arts and rightly so. He reveals so much with just a single raised brow
or penetrating stare projected into the audience. Is it any wonder his career
soared to new heights in 1967; his popularity breaching racial boundaries?

The film is on
less solid ground with James Clavell’s direction; his last plum assignment
before effectively retiring; only to periodically resurface with marginal
successes on television. In hindsight, To
Sir With Love plays very much like television programming than a
full-fledged movie; Clavell giving us the cinematic equivalent of an ABC ‘after
school’ special. In some ways, To Sir
With Love has always played better on television than it ever did inside a
big movie house; Clavell’s concentration of static close-ups, indiscriminately
inserted whenever and wherever to punctuate an actors’ reactions, a page ripped
straight from the ‘how to’ handbook for a TV melodrama. Paul Beeson’s cinematography effectively
captures the grunge of London’s east end, a world apart from the socially
affluent, enjoying their pleasures off Tottenham Court Road. In the final
analysis, To Sir With Love retains a
soft spot in our hearts not so much because we were all young once; rather,
because most can recall at least one teacher from these formative years who
made such a positive impact in their lives. Poitier’s Mark Thackeray is the
right man for this job; the novice who quickly takes his job seriously and
becomes entrenched in finding the goodness in his pupils. We all would wish for
a Mark Thackeray in our lives.

Indicator/Powerhouse,
a U.K. distributor, trump Twilight Time’s North American release of To Sir With Love; besting with a
superior 1080p transfer (it’s slightly darker, but with vastly improved
contrast and more accurate colors). There’s no skimping here. I have stated it
in the past, but it bears repeating herein: Sony remains the only studio in
Hollywood to have consistently maintained a high level of quality for all
product released in hi-def. To Sir With
Love is yet the latest benefactor of Grover Crisp’s enduring commitment to
both the old Columbia library and the Blu-ray format. What a treat to see To Sir With Love looking so vibrant and
rejuvenated in 1080p. Curious that TT’s release doesn’t sport the same transfer
quality, given that its disc was presumably derived from Sony sanctioned
digital files. But Indicator’s disc has better color and contrast. Regrettably,
the main title sequence still looks as though it has been fed through a meat
grinder; gritty, weak colors and poor contrast. Again, we are at the mercy of
originally archived elements. I suspect these did not survive for a
restoration. But immediately following the credits the image snaps together
with startling clarity and color density. You’ll like what’s here for the most
part. Contrast, on the whole is exceptional, and fine grain appears indigenous
to its source. Colors are the biggest improvement on this transfer; bold, rich
and eye-popping. Flesh tones, always a solid barometer by which to measure the
integrity of color balancing, are very natural in appearance. We can see the
minutest blemishes on skin, strands of hair and fiber in costuming as never
before.

The original
mono audio has been faithfully replicated in DTS 1.0; a good solid
dialogue-driven track with nothing to complain about. Indicator’s extras are
virtually identical to TT’s: an ‘isolated score’, a pair of audio commentaries,
the first with Judy Geeson, TT’s founder, Nick Redman and film historian, Julie
Kirgo; the other featuring author, E.R. Braithwaite and author/teacher Salome
Thomas El. We get a few short subjects too: E.R. Braithwaite: In His Own Words; Lulu and the B-Side; Miniskirts,
Blue Jeans and Pop Music; To Sidney
with Love, and finally, Principal
El: He Chose to Stay, plus the original theatrical trailer. Bottom line: To Sir With Love is a great – if flawed
– entertainment. This Blu-ray is tops and deserves consideration on everyone’s
list of ‘must haves’. Highly recommended!

Christine(1983) is the recipient of two formidable talents
working at the peak of their powers: the first is author, Stephen King; the
latter, director, John Carpenter, each a master of suspense in their respective
medium; Carpenter, an undeniable artisan in crafting the spooky good chill. In
an era before horror movies devolved into graphic illustrations of how many
gruesome ways one deranged individual could split another deranged individual’s
head open with an axe, Carpenter launched a valiant coup in defense of the
genre, to prove to its pundits that ‘horror’
could be legitimatized, even elevated, to a fine, spine-tingling art,
terrifying without turning off or bathing the front row theater seats in
buckets of blood. For too many years before and since, the horror genre has
endured unprecedented indignation from the B-meisters of schlock and silliness.
After Universal’s initial introduction of the supernatural in the early 1930’s,
even the studio that ostensibly ‘invented’ horror for the movies chose to turn
simple fright into abject revulsion in order to perpetuate and promote its
product. After Val Lewton’s cycle of success at RKO, psychological horror also
took a backseat to the Hammer franchises of the late 1960’s; over-the-top grand
guignol with a touch of Edgar Allen Poe or H.P Lovecraft thrown in for good
measure. But by the early 1980’s, John Carpenter was facing even stiffer
competition from the ‘slasher’ vein
of horror; audiences tuning into the salaciousness of increasingly bloodier
special effects to satisfy their appetite for fright.

Christine is the absolute antithesis of the slasher and quite
possibly the last of its ilk, Carpenter holding tight to the precepts
established in his Halloween (1978)
and The Fog (1980); sustained
bone-chilling excursions; herein with less obvious, though no less exhilarating
scares. Working from a screenplay by Bill Phillips, Carpenter’s changes to
Stephen King’s monumental literary shocker are mostly made for concision. We
lose the backstory about Christine’s
possession; in the novel, the car harbors the evil spirit of her deceased first
owner, Roland D. LeBay. But in the movie, Christineis simply imbued with an omnipotent demonic presence from day one of her
inception; the only candy-apple red 1958 Plymouth Fury to roll off the assembly
line from an otherwise uninspired lineup of ‘buckskin’ beige-finned beauties. As the real 58’ Fury was a rare
breed, Carpenter and his Production Designer, Daniel A. Lomino turned to
retrofitting 1957 Belvederes and Savoys to portray the malignant Plymouth. In
all, twenty cars would be convincingly ‘made up’ to look the part. Only two would
survive the many perils put forth by Christine’s
arduous shoot.

Christine perfectly illustrates two maxims that most, toiling
in the horror genre today, completely overlook; first, what you don’t see,
eerily emerging in half-shadow, is far more effective at stirring unease, fear
and loathing, than what is graphically revealed from a multitude of
frenetically edited angles; and second, mood trumps action any day of the week.
Christine is largely a series of
impressions made in the editing process to evoke a looming sense of dread;
Carpenter actually getting us to believe in an inanimate object with a soul –
albeit, a malevolent one. Consider Carpenter’s handling of the murder of teen
tyrant, Buddy Repperton (William Ostrander), chased down a darkened backroad by
Christine, recently engulfed in a hellish explosion at a gas station. A lesser
director might have sent this raging automobile catapulting down the abandoned
highway, giving us Repperton’s wild screams and a hideous cacophony of breaking
bones as the ole girl rolls over her victim.

Instead,
Carpenter plies us with the gut-wrenching dread of the inevitable; effectively
phasing out all sound effects except his unnerving, evenly paced and almost
monochromatic stalking anthem (shades of Michael Myers’ music cues from
Halloween), cutting from the lanky Repperton, fleeing on foot in his
tight-fitted jeans and cowboy boots while gradually bringing up the orangey
flicker of flames licking at his heels from out of the darkness along the
tarmac as Christine steadily advances. She is inescapable; Repperton knows it,
and so do we. She gains on him, but at a biding pace, perhaps even with a
queerly feline indulgence; Carpenter cutting from a close-up of Repperton’s
wide-eyed terrorization to a long shot of Christine casually passing by, the
sudden appearance of a corpse emerging from beneath her fireball chaste and
quietly sizzling on the asphalt, even more disturbing as she drives off without
even so much as a hint of acceleration.
It’s the inexorableness of such sequences – and there are many in the
movie – that make Carpenter’s excursion excruciating, if not impossible to sit
through without at least a few hairs standing on end. Christine will destroy
all who oppose; even more disturbingly, not out of hatred or a perfunctory
sense of revenge, but an even more sightless loyalty – nee, love?!? – for her
present owner, Arnie Cunningham (Keith Gordon).

If nothing
else, Christineturned America’s
love affair with the automobile – and its nostalgia craze for the fabulous
fifties – on end; the sentiment given its death knell in the final moments of
the movie as surviving cast members, Dennis Guilder (John Stockwell), Leigh
Cabot (Alexandra Paul) and Det. Rudolph Junkins (Harry Dean Stanton) quietly
observe her trash-compacted wreckage exhibiting minor vibrations of life. “God, I hate rock and roll!” says Leigh.
What is most impressive about Christineis Carpenter’s cleverly timed and released escalation of these anxious moments,
achieved with just a few light touches and very limited special effects;
Christine’s miraculous resurrection after Buddy and his motley crew of ne’er do
wells have taken their sledgehammers and box-cutters to her, mostly done by
shooting the destruction in reverse, then playing the film backwards (very
effective) or the scene in which Repperton’s gang-banger wannabee, Moochie
(Malcolm Danare) is cornered, then crushed to death by Christine inside a
loading dock (staged by having the front end of a mockup strapped to a jitney);
the event preceded by a rather blood-curdling moment of realization, as Moochie
stumbles upon Christine inside a parking garage, disquieting echoes of Thruston
Harris’ ‘Little Bitty Pretty One’
filling the night air as her V-8 engine stirs to a quiet rumble. It’s the
build-up that counts; Carpenter intuitively acknowledging, that without it the
payoff, - the murders themselves – don’t mean a thing.

If not for its
supernatural elements of chrome-plated demonic possession, one could almost
classify Christineas a
suspense-laden thriller; Dennis and Leigh’s slow unraveling of the mystery
behind the car and its hypnotic sway over Arnie (transformed from geek to sex
object seemingly overnight by the car’s possessive jealousy and sycophantic
adoration) playing very much like a traditional detective story with a
fetishistic slant toward ménage à trois.
Much of Carpenter’s inspiration undeniably derives from Stephen King’s
proses; the author’s cerebral descriptions of this possession of the car, a
real page-turner. But such literary descriptions rarely equate to affecting
competency on the movie screen. And yet, at some primal level, Carpenter
manages to invite his audience into Christine’s ‘thinking processes’; the car as much a character as any derived
from flesh and blood, and increasingly meant to dominate the movie’s landscapes
with an unerring sense of tortuous trepidation. Wisely, Carpenter shoots a good
deal of Christine under the cover of
night. The effect is uncanny as, when witnessed by day, innocuously parked near
the edge of a football field with Arnie, newly reincarnated as a pseudo-fifties
greaser, she appears as little more than a very fine piece of vintage machinery
from another bygone era in the evolution of the American automobile, when
artistry in design counted for something.
It is only after dusk, with her headlamps piercing the perpetual fog
loosely hanging in the air; her spooky green-glowing dashboard pulsating in an
almost nuclear fission-esque radiance, that we can see – or rather, interpret –
something is terribly wrong. This car has a mind and a will of its own.

Unlike Stephen
King’s novel, our story begins in the present; high school pals, jock – Dennis
Guilder and nerd, Arnold Cunningham having formed the unlikeliest of
friendships. Under the extra football padding and cleats, Dennis is just an
ordinary guy, empathetic to Arnie’s plight; his inability to fit in or get
dates; constantly the brunt of a tortuous initiation by high school tough guy
and greaser, Buddy Repperton and his gang of hooligans, who turn every shop
class into a nightmare. Arnie is convinced his prospects would change if only
he had a sweet ride; a chic magnet. But what Arnie becomes attracted to is
Christine; a rotted out shell of a ’58 Fury, rusting in the overgrown backyard
of George LeBay (Robert Blossoms). We get the Cole’s Notes overview of the
car’s history from George; his late brother, Roland’s mad obsession with the
car, even after the death of his wife and daughter inside it; his unerring
devotion to Christine until he too was discovered dead in her front seat. It is
an ominous precursor and a very bad omen. Only now, will she even start? Dennis
doesn’t think so. But against Dennis’ better judgement, Arnie spends every last
dollar to buy the car. He is promptly told by his overbearing mother and father
Christine can’t stay in their driveway. So Arnie leases a bay at Will Darnell’s
(Robert Prosky) Garage; a junkyard overflowing in spare parts Arnie takes advantage
of these to restore Christine to her original brilliance. For Arnie, it is a
labor of love; one Darnell mildly discourages, unless – of course, the kid is
willing to put in some time after school and do chores around the garage.

At the
homecoming football game, Dennis and Arnie are both drawn to head cheerleader,
Leigh Cabot. Dennis becomes distracted during the final run and, as a result,
gets tackled, cracking a few ribs. Meanwhile, Arnie and Leigh become an item.
It is not lost on Dennis that Arnie has managed not only to resurrect Christine
from the junkyards, but has also morphed himself from four-eyed nerd to a
confident greaser with a macho attitude. That evening, Arnie takes Leigh for a
ride in Christine to the local drive-in. It is pouring outside. Truth be told,
Arnie isn’t particularly interested in watching the movie anyway. But his
attempt at a seduction goes badly – or rather, awkwardly. Arnie is sincerely
patient. But Christine is severely jealous. So, after Arnie leaves the car to
buy some drinks, Christine – through supernatural powers never entirely
explained away – attempts to cause Leigh to choke on her burger as Arnie
helplessly watches; presumably, mimicking the fates befallen Roland LeBay’s
wife and daughter. However, at the last possible moment, Leigh is saved from
suffocating by a concerned stranger. Stunned after the incident, Leigh makes
Arnie take her home.

However, Buddy
Repperton and his boys are not about to let Arnie’s hard work and Christine’s
miraculous transformation go quietly into the night. Breaking into Darnell’s
Garage after Arnie has gone home for the night, Buddy and his gang lay waste to
Christine with their sledgehammers, box-cutters and chains; slashing her
carefully restored upholstery, shattering her headlamps, and decimating her
transmission and tires. When Arnie arrives to take Christine out for a spin the
next day with Dennis and Leigh in tow, he is wounded beyond all consolation
either friend can provide. However, a short while later, while still mourning Christine’s
loss, Arnie is stirred to notice the car calling to him. In response, Arnie
stands before Christine and declares, “Show me.” The car rejuvenates before his
very eyes; Christine reborn, only this time with a streak of revenge to exact
against all who betrayed her.

A short while
later, one of Repperton’s gang, Moochie Welch, is let off near an underpass
after hitching a ride on a lonely road. He hears music echoing from a nearby
underground garage and notices Christine, in showroom condition, parked nearby
with her headlamps turned off. Nervously calling out to Arnie, the car instead
revs its engine, pursuing Moochie to an isolated truck loading depot, forcing
the front end of her grill into the bay and severing Moochie in half. In the
novel, the act is much more vividly described. But John Carpenter has taken his
cue, not from Stephen King, or even the Hammer horror films of yore, or even
the burgeoning slasher market of ‘then’ today – rather, from the master of
suspense; Alfred Hitchcock. We get the implication of a horrific death without
actually being forced to squirm through it with blood and guts spewing into our
laps. The next day, the school is agog with gossip about Moochie’s death; Arnie
callously fluffing it off as just deserts. His cold-hearted pleasure is
unsettling to Dennis, who suspects Arnie is perhaps responsible in some way.
Challenging his friend, Dennis is somewhat relieved when Arnie confesses he had
nothing to do with Moochie’s demise. In point of fact, he probably has not. For
Christine is now feeding off of an energy charge more devilish than her
obsessive love for Arnie.

Enter Police
Det. Rudolph Junkins, suspicious of Arnie and Christine and applying pressure
to get a rise out of Arnie. Alas, Arnie has an alibi for the time of Moochie’s
murder – much to Dennis’ relief. Junkins isn’t buying it, however. The next
night, while Junkins is keeping tabs on Arnie, Christine leaves Darnell’s
Garage on her own power and pursues Buddy and his entourage, Richie Trelawney
(Steven Tash) and Don Vandenberg (Stuart Charno) as they leave a bar and speed
down a lonely highway. At some point, Buddy realizes they are being tailed and
attempts to outrun the car, unaware it is Christine. His clumsy escape plan
leads them to a dead end at an out-of-the-way filling station. Getting out of
his car, Buddy is incensed, realizing the vehicle is Christine. With her
windows blacked out, he naturally assumes Arnie is behind the wheel and
threatens him with bodily harm. Now, Christine rams Buddy’s car, killing his
two cohorts instantly and causing a gas main to rupture. The fuel ignites and
the station blows up in a hellish ball of flame. Buddy cannot believe his eyes;
more so, as Christine emerges from the firestorm as a ball of flame and pursues
him down the open road, eventually catching up to, and running him over.

Sometime
later, Christine returns to Darnell’s Garage, smoldering from her near
incineration. Darnell witnesses her pulling into the bay. Touching the driver’s
side door handle, Darnell is momentarily burned by the heat, but still elects
to open the door with the aid of a rag; discovering the interior virtually
unscathed by the flames that have blackened the still sizzling exterior paint.
He sits in the driver’s seat. Christine’s radio springs to life and Darnell’s
body is crushed between the seat and steering wheel. The next day, Arnie
discovers Det. Junkins and the police investigating Darnell’s suspicious death;
the body still slumped in the front seat, only now, with Christine’s paint job
as good as new, showing no ill after effects of her explosive previous night’s
excursions. Once again, Arnie cannot be directly implicated in the crime. But
Junkins is beginning to formulate a picture of what has been going on. So has
Dennis, who informs Leigh of his plan to save Arnie from himself. Christine
must be destroyed. The plan set, Dennis and Leigh make their way to Darnell’s
Garage where Dennis hotwires a bulldozer he intends to use to crush Christine.
The plan is for Leigh to wait in Darnell’s office and shut the loading bay door
after Christine arrives. Alas, the car has outsmarted the humans; already
present and lying in wait under a pile of camouflaged junk. As Leigh approaches
the office, Christine lunges toward her. Leigh barely escapes being run over
and Christine smashes her front fender against one of the garage’s sturdy
cement pillars. While she rejuvenates, Dennis tries to get the bulldozer to
spring into action. His difficulties in jump-starting the vehicle allow
Christine a second try for Leigh. She plows into Darnell’s office only moments
before Leigh manages an escape. Arnie is thrown from Christine’s windshield
onto her hood, seemingly unconscious.

However, as
Leigh approaches, Arnie suddenly rises up to grab her by the hair. Only then, do
both of them realize Arnie has been mortally impaled on a protruding shard of
glass from Christine’s windshield. He dies and Leigh, believing the ordeal is
at an end, stumbles from the office toward Dennis and the bulldozer. However,
Christine is now angrier than ever and determined to kill both Leigh and
Dennis. Her attacks are thwarted as Dennis manages to get the bulldozer up and
running. While pinning Christine in her place, Dennis rides over her with his
heavy treads, effectively crushing the Fury to death. We cut to a shot of
Christine emerging from a compactor at Darnell’s junkyard, crumpled and
compressed into a cube. Alas, as Arnie, Leigh and Det. Junkins look on, a loose
piece of metal begins to creak and separate from the cube, perhaps suggesting
Christine is not finished with her reign of terror yet.

At its core, Christinetaps into our fundamental
curiosity and need to explore the realms of anthropomorphism, once
traditionally ascribed only to other living creatures, but more recently
accredited to non-animate objects in our modern and post-modern world. Christine’s closest cousin is actually
TV’s utterly silly and short-lived sitcom, My
Mother, The Car (1965-66); highlighting the possession of a 1928 Porter by
the new owner’s late matriarch. Interestingly, the parallels between Christineand My Mother, The Car goes eerily beyond this mere reference; the male
protagonist in both instances, inexplicably drawn to a dilapidated vehicle
rusting away in a junkyard, taken over by a decidedly overbearing female
presence who then proceeds to create havoc in his life. In the case of My Mother, The Car, the situations
derived are strictly for laughs, perhaps, only mildly unsettling to the man’s
romantic ambitions. In Christine’s
case, the car’s female presence will not rest until her male owner has been
absorbed and destroyed by her jealousy.

I have read
far too many movie reviews about the implausibility of Christine. In its defense, lest we forget it is a horror movie. Name me a single offering from this genre that
makes sense; the bulk of our post-modern mangled horror movies perversely
relying on the over-simplified premise of scantily clad college coeds and/or
oversexed teens fit to be Ginsu-ed by a homicidal maniac with a knife, a power
drill, a sledgehammer, a chainsaw…yada, yada, yada; take your pick of flesh and
bone dislocating implements. As such, I have the deepest admiration for John
Carpenter’s early works in general, and Christine
in particular. If nothing else, it is a welcomed departure from the norm.
With Christine, Carpenter bucks a
trend he ostensibly started with Halloween,
The Fog, and, The Thing (1982). Carpenter’s vintage horror is always far more
intelligently conceived, emerging with allegoric undertones that most critics
casually – and rather callously – overlook, perhaps, because it is too easy –
and even more fashionable – to simply dismiss horror in totem as gauche. Yet,
in Christine we get a rather ominous
foreshadowing of man’s dependence on technology; his inability to conceive evil
in a form he, himself, has willed out of steel and spark plugs on the assembly
line; the master unknowingly at the mercy of the machine he has created –
shades of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein?!?
For what is a car, if not stitched and soldered together from spare parts?

And Carpenter
has managed to give the twenty some inanimate automobiles used in the filming
of Christine a singular and wicked
comportment. To do this, he needs an audience able to project menace filtering
from Christine’s glowing headlamps; our capacity to sense her demonic soul
lurking beneath the hood, almost whispering in hypnotic tongues and voices from
under the revving hum of her V-8 engine. Yet, only part of Christine’s
manifestation can be credited to our own imaginations. Rather, it is Carpenter
who plies us with a rather terrific and fairly concrete sense of some
otherworldly apparition trapped within this metal shell. His ability to define
evil in tangible terms; to parcel it off in deliberate properties with
calculating menace while maintaining equilibrium and legitimacy, is enviable;
both to Stephen King’s novel, even as it taps into our collective fear of the
unknown. Hitchcock similarly took a flock of innocuous and commonplace seagulls
in The Birds (1963) and made them
appear as the epitome of our own dread and transgressions against nature. With Christine, Carpenter illustrates a
similar template for man’s casual disregard of the classic American automobile,
herein simply a hunk of metal with seats and a steering column to get us from
points ‘A’ to ‘B’. To this inoffensive and utilitarian vehicle by design,
Carpenter applies Stephen King’s intangible precepts of demonic possession in
such a way as to allow the invisible to become fairly translucent – if not,
entirely solid – on the movie screen. Why do we fear Christine? It’s still just
a car with brighter than average headlamps and a slight bit of steam emanating
from under the hood. Why is this scary? Perhaps, because Carpenter, unlike King
in all his lurid prose, has lured the intangible improbability of demonic
possession from its shapeless and darkened recesses. The car lives, is
dangerous and hell-bent on controlling the hand that built it.

There is also
a sexual underlay to this prospect, as yet undiscussed; the buffing, waxing,
caressing that goes into a true car aficionados’ primary care; the proper
feeding of its internal combustion with the right oil and premium gas; the
implied sensuality achieved with the turning of heads to admire a well-looked
after roadster, cruising smoothly down the boulevard. Carpenter gives us all of these fetishistic
amours that most any guy, even one casually interested in fast cars, can
instantly relate to with the vehicle of his choice. The trick is in tearing all
that fastidiousness and respect for an elegant ride asunder; Carpenter
affording us the minor rumblings of something more hellacious afoot before
unleashing the terror in parceled off increments that steadily ratchet up our
loathing for even the concept we could ever ‘become attached’ to a car – as though it might one day be able to
turn around and love us back. With Christine,
love turns to obsession with a twist of the key in the ignition. In Christine, change equates to death and
murder and obsessive lust – the car warping its human element to satisfy…what? A need? Again, what does a car need
except the occasional wash and wax, and, frequent trips to the gas pump and
lube station to keep her roadworthy? In Christine’s
case, there remains a highly unconventional attachment to the strong hand at
the wheel; or rather, a weak hand easily manipulated into believing in its own
authority, long enough to be exploited by the car to her own purpose. In this
revelation, Carpenter’s Christine is
as much an exploration of one-sided control in any relationship and the
unhealthy exertions that result when one partner is unwilling to let the other
go without a fight to the finish, or in Christine’s case – the scrapyard.

After finally
come around to giving North American audiences a main stream release of Christine in 1080p in 2015, U.K.
distributor, Indicator/Powerhouse Films has bested virtually all previous
incarnations of Carpenter’s classic with a new Blu-ray release. Why? Because Indicator’s
reissue is ‘region free,’ has all the goodies imported from previous Blu
releases and is NOT a limited edition. Dirty little secret: this ‘newly minted’
1080p Blu-ray sports the same hi-def transfer as all of its predecessors, but
with the added bonus of containing an isolated score, denied Sony’s mainstream
release, but previously available on Twilight Time’s region A locked disc that
was out of print practically from the moment it streeted. In North America,
Sony inexplicable went the route of licensing this popular catalog title first
to third-party distributor Twilight Time as a ‘limited edition’ in the fall of
2013 where it rapidly sold out. Rumors then swirled, TT would get a second bite
at the proverbial apple. But Sony reneged and did the deed themselves. Now
Indicator is poised to steal everyone’s thunder.

Inexplicably,
Amazon.uk and many review sights advertise this reissue as Region B. It’s not.
It’s ‘region free’. Not only do I own the disc, but I have conferred with a rep
from Indicator who assures me all future releases by them will also be ‘region
free’. And so, Christine comes to Blu-ray with a much wider and infinitely more
cost-effective general release that will certainly please. Bottom line: you’ll
be hard-pressed to find fault with Christineon Blu-ray; the image supports some excellent detail, clarity and depth.
The early scenes, presumably set in the sweltering summer of 1958 when
Christine was born, were shot on Fuji film stock to take advantage of its
richer sepia tones. The sequences photographed by Donald M. Morgan at night
tend to look a little less than superb, marginally flatter than anticipated; I
suspect, owing to vintage 80’s film stocks and not the fault of this transfer. The 5.1 DTS audio mix provides a subtler
upgrade to the original 2.0 DTS – both included for consideration herein.
Dynamic range is excellent regardless of which option is chosen with
Carpenter’s atmospheric underscore and George Thorogood’s ‘Bad to the Bone’ the
real beneficiaries. Dialogue is clean and crisp. Finally, there are the extras
to consider: a trio of informative featurettes, all of them ported over from
Sony’s old SE-DVD. We get interviews with cast, crew and Carpenter. These
featurettes have appeared on virtually every hi-def incarnation of Christine
since, as well as a rather engaging audio commentary with Keith Gordon and
Carpenter. Bottom line: Christine
holds up. Since it was always somewhat leaning toward a ‘period piece’ – what, with Carpenter’s affinity for the fifties,
using pop tunes from that decade as affecting backdrop – not much about the
movie has dated since 1983; even the clothes and hair styles remaining
analogously true to the decade, yet not slavishly so. Well, okay – maybe the
track shoes and gym socks with the red stripes. Otherwise, Christine revs up as a solid night of chills without the
bloodletting. Carpenter did his homework back then. Thirty-plus years into the
future, and time has not diminished his contributions. Bottom line: highly
recommended!

About Me

Nick Zegarac is a freelance writer/editor and graphics artist. He holds a Masters in Communications and an Honors B.A in Creative Lit from the University of Windsor.
He is currently a freelance writer and has been a contributing editor for Black Moss Press and is a featured contributor to online's The Subtle Tea. He's also has had two screenplays under consideration in Hollywood.
Last year he finished his first novel and is currently searching for an agent to represent him.
Contact Nick via email at movieman@sympatico.ca